He Sits
by FollowedByImplosion
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts. Harry Potter is a young wizard with a need for conversation. And John Watson? Well, let's just hope that he's keeping himself out of trouble.
1. Chapter 1

The train was, by sheer dumb luck, quiet. Or rather, the people inhabiting it were. The train itself was not the quietest of beings, clanking and squeaking as it pushed itself further along the tracks. He had sat there for hours, finding a rhythm in the noises, hoping that none of the students would venture this far back. The last carriages of a train tended to be the emptiest, most desolate places.

The suit was old, one that he hadn't worn for so many years- in fact, not since that last dinner with the family. To sit here, on an old train in an old suit was certainly surreal. To sit here with all that he had was certainly lonesome, and not what he had been anticipating when accepting the position. Well, accept wasn't perhaps the correct word- taken, been handed on a silver platter, begged for until the old man had finally relented. Whichever, the long journey hadn't been at the front of his thoughts until the moment he had stepped onto the train.

There were books, of course. His many books, packed tightly into the case at his feet. It would occasionally lurch around, hitting the side of his leg, slamming into the old and worn door. If you looked closely, you could see where the glass had been mended before- with a dodgy spell and a panicked voice. He had never done that; never cast a spell so poorly. Never broken a window, in fact. He had broken a lot of things, but windows had never made the list.

He had sat here a total of fourteen times before. This would be the fifteenth, and the only one made in this suit. Seven had been in robes of black, seven in more usual attire. Robes had never been to his fancy- long and billowing, attracting attention and making you look sinister. The more conventional lot wore them, but the appeal had never quite sunk in for him. The others would wear them, as would the young ones- but he had a choice, and his position on the matter was going to remain clear.

Using a book for a desk- a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_- a letter had been half penned. His hands had shaken, the quill almost falling away, ink staining the page. It was a terrible effort on his part. And yet, all he could do. He hurried through the last few sentences as the train began to slow, desperate to finish before he was forced to leave the relative comfort and solitude of the compartment and made to join the others. It would be a long and tedious affair, full of whispers and predictions. Odd, that as a boy he had always wanted to know what they spoke of up there on the raised platform. But now, finally about to find out, he wasn't so sure.

Being new was bound to attract something. Curiosity, pity, resentment. In a place like the one for which he was headed, you couldn't avoid it. To stay in the shadows was to be assumed that you had something to hide. And while he _did_, it was debatable as to whether he really wanted more whispers.

Rolling up the parchment, he stood- but unlike the children, made no effort to stand by the doors, to run for the platform as soon as they opened. The train would stay at the platform long enough for everybody to clear out, and therefore long enough for him to arrive alone. To take his seat amongst the others an engage in the petty conversation that was bound to follow.

He managed to avoid the half-giant, and everyone else. The threstral-drawn carriage ride seemed faster than the train, and as the woodland began to thin, he caught his first sight of the place.

Having not been anywhere near to it for a good decade and a half, he was struck by the magnificence of the castle. Tall and proud, albeit slightly crumbling. It really hadn't changed, aside from the occupants- and still, one or two remained.

He stepped from the carriage, striding up to the gate and following a familiar route to the hall. It was full of students, each louder than the one beside them- by the end of the night, he was sure to have a headache, and would hardly be able to work until that subsided. Nodding to a few of his fellows, he slipped into the seat that had always, by his memory, been the one of the post that he had taken. Leaning forward, he could see the headmaster, his beard as long as ever, robes as extravagant. When sited, he gave the elder a small nod, before allowing his eyes to sweep the hall.

Isolation, if by choice, had not done him well. Although he had caught up events or anything else of interest, much of the world was… hazy. To not know was foreign, an unkind and unwanted concept. And yet here he sat, able only to recall small facts. The sea of ginger would be the Weasley's, who had won money and gone on a holiday to Egypt. The pale blonde seated sat the table second to the left was the son of Malfoy, and really, that was all he could pick out. No doubt that the others could name the students by heart, likely to know their fathers and therefore the young ones.

The chatter slowly died away, as the headmaster stood up. Dumbledore, the greatest of them all, the one who chose to be a _teacher_ instead of lead the Ministry. But the, who was he to judge? He had abandoned it all together, gone against it all in a pursuit of science and forensics. But it paid better, and the thrill was certainly worth it all.

The sorting began, a ceremony that even such a long stint away couldn't make any less tiresome. One by one, the smallest and meekest students tripped over to the stall and allowed the hat to rest upon his or her head. After a small deliberation, a house was called out, and the child would scurry over to the table. This was repeated several times, until finally the hat and stool were carried away by the elderly woman. Professor McGonagall, they called her. He knew her from his younger years, as the strict but fair transfiguration professor.

"Dig in!"

The hall was filled with the sounds of cutlery against plates, as the students all began to talk at once. He wasn't hungry, but it wouldn't go down well if he simply sat and ate nothing- so he went for the bare minimum.

Mrs Hudson's had always been better.

The others at the table were also talking, mainly of their summers- planning lessons, preparing for new students- the usual, everything expected. The short charms professor, Flitwick, was rambling, and for once he was perfectly content to listen and nod. The lack of anything interesting to say was for once a blessing. You could talk about science here, or of crime and blood-splatter patterns. Flitwick had wasted no time in remarking on his long absence, the lack of hearing from him. How he could have made it in the Ministry, as an auror or perhaps in law enforcement. All of these suggestions were dismissed by the shake of a head, and soon the topic was dropped.

"To our new students," Dumbledore began, as soon as the noise had dropped and the hall became silent. He hadn't seen the elder stand. "Welcome. To our old hats, welcome _back._ I have a few short notices to give out; firstly, a new list of banned items for the year has been pinned to the door of Mr Filch's office- anyone swishing to examine that may do so at his or her leisure. The forbidden forest is, as the name implies, _strictly_ forbidden to _all_ students," He paused for a moment, looking pointedly at the table on the far right. "And I am pleased to welcome a new teacher to our ranks- Professor Holmes, who has accepted our invitation to join ranks as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

There was a smattering of applause, to which he only nodded. First to the students, then to the headmaster. Remaining inconspicuous would be difficult around this man, who attracted attention wherever he went.

The headmaster gave the word for bed, and as loud as they ever had been, the students dispersed. Some things would never change, even given time, and the chatter that accompanied such a feast was certainly one of them.

"You've been gone a while."

He spun around, unsure of who had spoken. Standing there was a man dressed all in back, bat-like in demeanour. He was smirking, but curious looking all the same.

"Muggles?"

"That would be obvious, I should think."

The men were all but staring each other down. There was no reason for conflict, but this was clearly the type of man to seek it out- mysterious and cold, they rivalled each other in all ways but one. Robes.

"Working?"

"Yes. Fulfilling and a lot less dangerous."

"I wasn't aware that muggle trades were very… interesting."

"Each to their own, but you gain a certain respect if you take it the right way." The rest of the staff were still talking, slowly leaving in pairs. "Not that you would."

The other nodded. "Professor Snape." He held out his hand.

"Holmes."

They shook, turned away, and left. He didn't know what to think, as he made his way to his quarters. Snape had a bitter grin and was clearly dangerous if not kept an eye on.

It would be something to do whilst cooped up here, he supposed. Pulling the letter from his pocket, he turned to the owl resting on the perch. He tied the letter to its leg, and sent the poor thing on its way. London was far, but that was what the birds were for, and somehow he knew that it would be more than fine with the journey.

_Me again. In hindsight, I should be updating more stuff rather than starting new stories. Anyway. Hope you like this :D_


	2. Chapter 2

Start of term. Or as he remembered it, hell.

Having made a point to get to the classroom early, Holmes almost revelled in the noise outside of the stone walls. Shouting and shoving, older students exerting far too much energy on intimidating their youngers. He could have dragged out their wait outside, having left the door closed with no invite in- and of course, the students would be late. Perhaps it was start of term etiquette to miss half of your first class, just to make an impression; or maybe Hogwarts held some very lazy and ill-mannered students.

The last bell sounded, and so it was with some dread that he pulled himself from behind the desk and over to the door. He listened for a moment- most of the students were chattering away about their summers, each more boring than the last. The few that were speculating on his teaching were less concerned on the classwork and practical elements- save for combat- but rather exactly how much time would be wasted on homework over the course of the year.

Swinging the door open, he watched as the students filed in- a redhead and his two friends, an Irish boy all but screaming about turning water into rum, and other oddities. The class sat, watching him with bated breath as he slammed closed the door and strode up the aisle. Quickly as he could, he wrote his name on the chalkboard.

"My name," he started. "Is Holmes. Your names will be read out shortly. This is Defence Against the Dark Arts, it is the first day of term, and I can assure you right now that you will never be bored during or after one of my classes."

Some of the class snickered but for the most part, they stayed silent. He scanned the class list, matching each name to a face. _Thomas, Granger, Goyle, Malfoy, Potter, Zabini…_ There were more that he recognised, but those ones stuck out. For different reasons, of course. The Slytherins would be the most trouble, Granger would be asking every question possible, and Potter- Potter would sink into his chair every few minutes and wait for the ground to swallow him up.

Poor Potter. Someday the poor boy would have to suck it up.

"This year will be the most difficult and possibly most enjoyable of your school career. The fifth year is the year that determines your future, your NEWT courses and whether you're cut out to survive in the- Is there something you would like to add, Malfoy?"

The muttering boy's head snapped up, a look of glee on his face. "I was just saying- in terms of being _cut out to survive,_ that is- is it because you failed your NEWTs that you went to live with the muggles?"

The class was expectant, no doubt. Well, he wasn't going to disappoint- if you were going to do a job, you had to at least do it properly; and prepare your students for their futures of being teased in the workplace.

"In fact, Malfoy, I was trying to find a position that would cater to _your_ NEWT results. My NEWT results are now meaningless- I'm a teacher, correct?"

Malfoy nodded, irked rather than embarrassed. It was the simple things in life that made you smile, and having your class snicker at the well-known bully was oddly satisfying.

"Each and every one of you is capable of achieving high grades in the class- however, some of you will find it less easy than others. You will have to _think._ I will not tolerate talking in this room. I will not tolerate slacking off. And I will not tolerate failures."

He moved back to the board from the aisle, pausing to watch the class. They sat straight and quiet, and save for the shuffling of feet, you could have heard a pin drop. Control was what he had, and control he would keep- unless Anderson's spawn had somehow made its way into the castle.

Now that would have been a tragedy.

"I, as you may have heard, have spent many years in the muggle world. It is, if you open your eyes, a fantastic place- and I made it my job to help those without our… gifts. It is a sad truth that many of our people see those without magic as weak- it is clear that they overlook most muggle history and focus only on their own, more doctored one. Anti-muggle slurs will _not_ be tolerated in this classroom either."

Again, they stared.

"To begin," he began. "We will read. Start from the beginning of your book, and at the end up chapter one, you will answer the questions that I have written on the board. No talking. I want these by the end of the class, and- yes, Granger, we will be practising spells next class."

The bushy haired girl gasped, but quickly nodded and bowed her head to the parchment. The scratching of quills soon filled the room, but it was even quicker that the first voice was raised.

"Sir," the juvenile Irish voice piped up. "The chapter and the questions-"

He stood, silencing the young boy. "Correct, Finnigan. Must the questions relate to the assigned reading? Of course not. Carry on."

And so they did. And as they did, he watched them- particularly the few that he didn't know. Muggle borns, he guessed. Granger, diligent and studious- and yet friends with Potter and Weasley, two souls less confined to books and academia. Finnigan, a walking disaster zone. Brown and Patel, giggling at the back of the room. Thomas, clearly speculating everything that he could- lost, in a sense. The Slytherins, an altogether nasty bunch who were best left to stew in their hatred.

_Potter._

Potter sat with Weasley, occasionally looking up at the board for the questions. He ignored half of the red-head's nudges and prompts, instead muttering _not now_ and other avoiding phrases. He was in his element, this was clear- and yet, he didn't seem to know what he was doing in the classroom.

Well, they had mentioned his Quidditch abilities. Accident-prone and frankly rather violent, the boy had probably taken a few knocks to the head.

The class continued to work in silence, save for the occasional mutter and flicking of pages. It was peaceful, but with nothing to do but observe, it was easy to become bored in such a mundane setting. The only decorations that he had so far added to the room were numerous skulls, adorning the window ledges and every shelving unit that he could find. They stared upon the students, keeping them in check.

It was a surprise when the bell sounded, a harsh and frightening sound within the silence of the classroom. The students jumped and scrambled from their desks, muttering and nodding goodbyes and thank you's as they hurried from the room. Potter was one of the last, half being dragged along by Granger, and Weasley following.

Well, no one could object—he certainly had them working until the last minute.

The rest of the days classes dragged, each group of students proving more difficult than the last. While he didn't raise his voice even once, there were some students more deserving of extra work than others, and some who would certainly benefit from some time spent with Anderson or anyone else from Scotland Yard.

But if he couldn't, then they certainly wouldn't.

Dinner was skipped, spent in the relative quiet of his quarters. Without a violin to provide music, he was relying on the wireless set, old and worn with a limited choice. But he was grateful for the noise- a merge replacement for John, Mrs Hudson, even Lestrade. With a book in his hands and only half the candles in the room lit, there was a sinister feeling in the air. An owl would occasionally swoop past the window, dangerously close and seemingly about to collide with the glass.

The day had been as expected, if not slightly worse- there was no response from London, not that he expected one. But no response was still a little discouraging, and it was somewhat disappointing that she hadn't gotten back to him.

Alone was at least waiting with open arms.

The night was black, clouds blocking the stars and moon from view. The forest was almost invisible against the night sky, the village hidden behind that. A wander was what he desired, but perhaps it was better to focus on something attainable. But there was no marking yet, not on the second night back. The texts were old and familiar from even his days as a student, never changing and provoking boredom .

It was good to be back. Even once you left, there was always a part of you that missed the hallowed calls and flaming torches of the old stone castle.

* * *

_Yeah, it's short. But it's finals week now, so I should probably revise. Sigh. See you maybe next week, I think!_


	3. Chapter 3

Once the old castle slipped into a routine, life became almost dull. For most, such would have been a blessing- the rumours of chaos that the students carried home each summer were probably true, and a calm year was something that most students must have longed for. But for Sherlock Holmes, boredom was his mind's way of telling him that he was now on self-destruct. Dangerous as it was, he could also have called it entertaining- waiting to see exactly how long he could go without a case, something interesting, a murder.

The students were as he had expected- half hopeless cases, some undecided on whether it was worth trying, and the rest working so hard that even he was slightly impressed. There were the interesting few, of course; Potter and his friends, the Malfoy boy and his cronies- in fact, they were similar. He had yet to initiate conversation with either- Potter was wary of anything, and so Holmes had put off calling him back. Malfoy was less than keen to so much as make eye contact- and while this was fine with Holmes, there was only so much that he could work out about either from observation alone. He hadn't met anyone this secretive for a while- besides himself, of course.

But there was a careful secrecy and a devious secrecy, and Holmes was almost ashamed to admit that he now fit into the latter category. It wasn't by choice- far from it, in fact. But he had taken up the offer, even if grudgingly, and was now sitting around with the guilt.

Not that Sherlock Holmes was one to succumb to guilt. He just didn't appreciate its presence.

He dipped the quill back into the ink, still unsure of what to write. His last letter had yet to yield a response- as expected, but it was no less unnerving to not have a reply. This letter was a little more domestic- in fact, there was hardly any use for the feathered bird, perched in the corner and chirping away. He hated owls. They were useful, yes, but altogether too conspicuous for his liking.

It wasn't that he _wanted_ to write to such a man. Such a man who was clearly an enemy to many, easily likened to his own rival. Both threatening in a sense, to others- not to Holmes, a fairly fearless man. It was out of need that he stared at the parchment, rather than any desire for conversation with this man.

_Professor Snape;_

Or would Severus be better? No. He hardly knew the man, and really had little desire to do so.

_I write this letter in order to inquire on the subject of Mr Potter of Gryffindor house. Should you see it fit, please meet me at the edge of the Forbidden Forest at midnight on the night of the fifth of September. _

_Yours,_

_S. Holmes_

Letter writing wasn't exactly something that Holmes enjoyed, much less something that he did on a daily basis. In fact, he positively loathed the idea. But somehow it was better than face-to-face communication. Sadly, in a small castle with a lot of students, he was bound to talk to them, when he would have liked nothing more than to sit in his office all day and let them get on with it.

He sent the owl on its way, watching as it flew off to the other side of the castle. At least he was giving the thing exercise, and making use of it- but that was one of many area in which he preferred Muggles and their way of communicating. Pick up a phone, send an email- hide behind a false identity that most people couldn't work out from your typing style alone. But here, everything was out in the open, and that was perhaps what made detective work so difficult- you couldn't play the opposition at their own game. It was frowned upon, even, to pretend to switch sides. Only a few could do that, and it was always in a way initiated by the Ministry or some other organisation. The Order of the Phoenix, even though they worked separately from the Ministry, still held those ideas- to work within a structure. But to also risk anything, to put a life on the line for only the most trivial of reasons.

The Order hadn't been for him. Sadly, he had been the only one holding that view.

_Brilliant_ Sherlock, always knowing the weakness of the enemy. _Clever_ Sherlock, always knowing when the time was right to strike. Not really. It was common knowledge, and nothing was ever approved by the ones with the power. It was a mess, the Order. A friendly mess, somewhere he had genuinely enjoyed being- but it had never offered what the Muggles did. While the Order had given him fifteen minutes of fame, Muggles were always astounded by his deductions, never failing to admire him for it.

It was hard to find somebody in a world of magic who found intelligence- raw, _real_ intelligence- amazing. In a magical world- and an illogical one at that- sit was all about casting spells and protecting the students from the dark forces that lurked outside of the stone walls.

A sad fact, really.

It was then that the owl flew back inside, landing on the desk in front of him. He untied the response from its leg and sent the thing on its way.

_Of course. However, you may have more luck, albeit biased, with McGonagall. _

_S. Snape_

So that was set. He had never had much contact with the Slytherin during their school years, much preferring to hide behind a book instead of joining in with the other student's games. Snape had never been very lucky anyway- in fact, it had been common to hear of show James Potter had once again ridiculed the boy out by the lake.

He had never taken sides. As a Ravenclaw, someone of intelligence and wit, he had known exactly what would happen, wherever he stood. One side would love you, the other hate- and that was simply too much attention for either. They were at school to learn, not torment others.

Potter was intriguing. Holmes had known his parents- not too well, but well enough that he could have spoken to them about a great many things- and it seemed that while the boy took after his father in terms of looks, he had his mother's work habits and kind nature. It was an odd combination, but one that worked quite well. And on one side he had Weasley, with his sneers and jokes, while on the other side Granger, who insisted that he work. Holmes had strolled through the library, occasionally overhearing angry mutters of _get to work!_ All from the girl, of course. Still, it would be good to have the three of them pass their OWLs. It wasn't as though they were incapable, but there was certainly something troubling the three of them. It was everywhere, but those three were certainly more concerned than others.

Voldemort.

Holmes didn't like the name, not at all. But for years of living without it, without being scared of his enemies, it was a little trivial to be scared of it. He had said Moriarty's name enough, after all, and the villain that was Voldemort wasn't going to be attacking anyone soon. There was no way that he could get away with it. Even if half the world was in denial, Voldemort was probably pretty conspicuous, and once everyone knew that he was back, there would be a whole lot less that he could get away with.

The Order was trying to make sure of that. Trying to make their voices heard, all while using a fifteen year old boy. A boy who looked insane against those opposing his claims.

Voldemort was a threat. Not to Holmes personally, but to Potter, Dumbledore, and the wider wizarding world. At least the best knew the truth. It was still slightly discouraging that not many else did, but he could liken it to a Muggle case- if no one else had seen it, if the witness wasn't the most credible, then the ruling was unlikely to be in your favour. And Potter hadn't been reported upon well over the course of the past year.

It was late, and Holmes was restless. He dipped the quill into the ink, pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment, and began to write.

* * *

_Yeah, I have explaining to do. This is ridiculously late because; 1) I am working on two novels right now. 2) The sun finally came out and seeing as I live in Canada, I wasn't about to waste the opportunity. 3) I've been procrastinating. Sorry._

_I hope you enjoy this very short, think-y chapter, and I'm sorry that it isn't the best that I've ever done. YOU'LL GET A BETTER ONE NEXT TIME I PROMISE. _

_Okay bye and THANK YOU ALL 43 PEOPLE FOLLOWING THIS AND ALL 11 WHO HAVE SO FAR REVIEWED IT MAKES ME REALLY HAPPY ^.^_


	4. Chapter 4

The fifth came slowly and after several more lessons with Potter. Holmes could conclude from these that the boy, while rather determined to hide his abilities, was talented. His work, albeit messy and fairly last minute, was well done- to the point at which Holmes was almost impressed. Perhaps the boy, distracted and hot headed as he was, was set to succeed in his subject. Of course, Holmes wouldn't have necessarily been surprised, but maybe impressed.

Potter was less keen to speak up in lessons, apparently preferring to keep his head down. Or more, he clearly felt he had no other choice. Holmes was reluctant to call on him, but at the same time curious as to what the boy might say in response to a challenging question- would he, if asked about using unforgivable curses in defence, decide to stay on the side of the law? Or would he refuse from a moral standpoint? Or maybe the boy was happy to get out of anything alive- indeed, it certainly seemed that way whenever Holmes released the class. Potter and his friends would hurry ahead, later to me seen in the library, muttering angrily about the Ministry. It was intriguing, to say the least.

But Holmes would have to learn more about the boy before attempting conversation with him. Already, he had earned himself some less than kind looks from Granger, who appeared to take issue with his teaching methods. Holmes was blunt, of course- as was she. Maybe not the best approach in such troubled times, but was it really beneficial to anyone for him to not call on the most timid of his students? Was it really going to help any of them learn if he only let the brightest answer? Of course not. Although Holmes had disagreed with this during _his_ student days, he now had a duty to have each and every student pass.

Not to say that it would be difficult to do so, but more that he was rather reluctant to have certain members of his class excel.

Malfoy and his cronies, while much less of a problem than first anticipated, were less than high on his list of students to pay attention to. Keep an eye on, yes, but not make them thing that they were in any way special. No one really was, not in Holmes' class, but it was fairly amusing to watch Malfoy scowl and glare whenever he was ignored.

Holmes sat behind his desk on the morning of the fifth of September. The week was almost over, and most students were eager to catch the last of the late summer sun. Sadly, however, Holmes was rather less keen to allow them any free time- and so he sat, watching as they filed inside.

The day passed quickly, each class bringing with it new noises and deductions to make. Twice, Holmes revealed the newest scandal to the class, accidently shaming the perpetrators. In preparation for what he could tell would become a prank on the part of the Weasley twins, the seventh years were advised to avoid the fourth floor altogether. Homework was given, detentions were arranged, and by dinner, Holmes was sitting in his office, once again marking and correcting the ink-splattered work of forgetful teenagers.

It was almost as though he missed it.

Sherlock Holmes and working late had never been strangers, and their bond had only been strengthened upon leaving school. In the Muggle world, there was no time for sleep- there was always something new to be discovered, someone else to impress- and so Holmes had spent days awake, investigating and framing, learning and watching. It had been almost fun, to watch the sunrise over sleepy London, to watch as the city prepared itself for another morning of tired inhabitants and late trains. More fun when he had been with a companion, but none had stuck around for long enough to see _his_ world, a world of wonder and excitement at the things that most were too ignorant to see the beauty in. Why yes, the sun set every evening- but each evening it set at a different time, with different colours blending into one another on the horizon. Yes, the rain poured down for days at a time each spring, but each droplet was new, cold as it landed on the lid of a coffee cup while he waited for a taxi.

One had stuck around long enough. Although Holmes had as good as betrayed him now.

Many saw Sherlock Holmes as a cold, heartless and unappreciating human being. But they couldn't have been further from the truth.

But it was a disguise that worked well, and one that no one had yet to uncover. One had come close, and in some ways had done worse than uncover his secret- he had instead been forced to confront it, to confront the things that set him apart from everyone he knew.

Midnight came, the stars shining bright in an unusually clear sky. Holmes was used to sneaking out, and even though he was more than allowed to leave the castle even at such an hour, he still felt as though he was breaking some sort of rule. It was a thrill, and a childish one at that- but it was nonetheless an excitement, so walk under the cloak of the night, alone and unseen.

The forest was old, perhaps even older than the castle. It had its secrets, as did the beings that lay within it. Holmes had never ventured inside, preferring to sit on the edge and study the soil- quietly, of course. But now he was making his way towards a black figure, almost a shadow against the trees.

"Professor Snape." He greeted the other, who nodded towards the trees.

"I'm not one for adventures, but perhaps it would be… safer under cover," His eyes flickered to the sides. "There are some students who simply cannot be trusted to stay where they should."

Was that a smirk? And if so, one of mockery or understanding? Holmes and Snape had both had their fair share of late night adventures, after all. And while Holmes had been less inclined to cause trouble, both had spent time being lectured for it.

"Mr Potter is a nuisance. He is famous, popular, and like his father. You will hear many of the staff call himself his mother's child- but I will assure you now, Potter will not live up to this. He is disobedient, rude, and all but a show-off. His sporting credentials and near-misses with death have gone to his head, and you are unlikely to talk any sense into him."

"I find him rather pleasant in my classes."

"He will also carry a grudge. You have yet to ask him a difficult question, to challenge him- but once you do, be prepared to be challenged, maybe even seen as below himself."

"A defiant personality?"

"You may have heard him with his friends, speaking of the Dark Lord. From this, Professor Holmes, I believe you could… deduce that the boy is unwilling to listen to any opinion aside from his own. While what he says is almost without a doubt true, he has lost friends over it."

"And how would you describe his friends?"

"Brainwashed. Into believing that he holds the answers to everything, into thinking that he won't get into trouble for his actions. They are mistaken."

0oo0

"This year," Holmes began, not leaving his seat. "Is a year of testing. As you well know, this is your OWL year, and as I have told you before, this is therefore one of the most challenging years as a student in this school. However, this year also brings with it tests of another nature.

You sit in this classroom today, confident of your safety. Protected by stone and some of the greatest wizards to ever have lived. But despite this, you are very, _very_ wrong, if you choose to let down your defences. This year brings with it a new enemy, one to whom most of you, the very name sends shivers down your spines. And so it is my job, this year, to prepare you. Whether you believe in this threat or not, it is my duty as a teacher to ensure that the moment you leave the safety of this school, you are equipped and ready to deal with whichever dark forces you may encounter. Whether this be a simple boggart, or something else entirely."

The few who had raised hands let them down, watching him with a mixture of curiosity, anger, and approval.

"My views on the more controversial news that has recently come to light do not matter. I will not ask you what you may think, and you will extend the same courtesy to me. However, I prefer to act on the basis that the worst may indeed happen- and therefore, starting today, you will be learning how to defend yourself. Last year, you learned about curses. This year, you will lean some more. You will learn how to use them, how to counteract them, and where the law stands.

My best advice, however, is to run."

He assigned the class some reading, and watched for a few minutes- none spoke, and only a few glanced at each other, questioning looks on their faces. The reading itself was on unforgivable curses, and was the most detailed that Holmes could have found- although perhaps _too_ detailed. Potter would occasionally look up, only be receive a prod from Granger, and return to reading.

The bell startled everyone, and as per usual, there the pack-up noise was deafening. Over it, Holmes managed to yell;

"Potter, stay behind!"

He then returned to his marking. Was he deliberately trying to unnerve the boy, or had he suddenly grown weary? As the door swung shut, he looked up.

"Never before have I had a difficult time in deducing a teenage boy," Holmes began. "Sadly, Rita Skeeter told me everything I needed to know."

"You believed-"

"Anything but. Her writing is good only for swatting at flies. However, I did assume that I could take everything she had said and from that believe the opposite- I'm… mistaken."

"Should I be thankful?"

"Only if you wish. Mr Potter, I don't believe for a second that you underestimate the danger that the wizarding world is now in. However, I do believe that you overestimate your ability to convince others of that danger. I can relate- not directly but in some ways- to your situation. And it is from there that I offer a helping hand."

Holmes watched as the boy frowned. He had surprised himself- while Holmes was known for assisting those who asked, it was unlike him to _offer_- and no doubt that he would regret it later.

Potter nodded. "How?"

"Sadly I am not influential, at least not here, and I would rather not tell anyone outside what I can do. However, I do have some skill, and despite what you may believe or have heard, would be willing to help you, if you so need it."

"Thank you, sir."

"Of course, this is on the basis that you convince Miss Granger that I am not out to have you all fail your fifth year."

The boy cracked a smile. Holmes probably hadn't smiled once in his entire fifth year- although that could have been because he spent a lot of it because yelled at. "She doesn't really-"

"Oh, I'm sure she does. You can go now, just in case they think I'm subjecting you to even more homework. Which I won't hesitate to do, by the way."

* * *

_Hello again! So as a consequence for having a longer chapter, you have to deal with my awful speech writing. Sorry about that. Thank you to everyone who has followed, favourited, reviewed and read, and I might see you next week. I'm going on holiday in eight days, so I'll probably update just before I leave and then abandon this for two weeks while I'm away. Ah well! I hope you enjoyed this. _


	5. Chapter 5

John Watson had never felt so alone.

It was a funny feeling, and even though he had felt it many times before, almost foreign. Making tea for one, watching the news uninterrupted—he didn't like it, not one bit. The fact that everything else remained made it almost harder.

Mycroft hadn't taken any of it. The man had called by, of course—this time without the offer of money—and offered his condolences, which John had returned, but he hadn't even glanced at the skull above the fireplace, or the violin by the window. It was as though he couldn't see them, as though John was the only person left who could lay eyes on his possessions.

Really, John Watson wanted anything but. He wanted the skull and violin to disappear, for Sherlock's dressing gown to pick itself up from the floor and fold itself away into a cupboard. He wanted the remnants of experiments to tidy themselves away and for the flat to clean itself up again. He wanted, more than anything else, for Sherlock to stop messing around and come back. But even John, who had moved in for the thrill, who had known that it wouldn't last forever and that someday their risks would have consequences, knew that it wasn't going to happen.

It made him sick.

What "it" was, John wasn't sure, but he knew that "it" had something to do with the games that had and were being played, the deaths and the cases, the absence and the longing, the lack of hope. "It" had a lot to do with James Moriarty and all the pain that the man had brought with him.

_James Moriarty isn't a man at all. He's a spider in the middle of a web…_

John had to shake his head to get Sherlock's voice to go away. It was pitiful, being unable to move on. John was a soldier, he was _supposed_ to pick himself up and move on, to go on to fight the next war and not worry about what he was leaving behind. That was what he was meant to do, what he _had_ to do—and yet John simply couldn't bring himself to leave his chair.

The sofa and chair nearest the window were Sherlock's, and so John would only ever sit in the chair near the kitchen and at the very messy desk against the wall. He hadn't yet opened his blog, hadn't yet faced Stamford or anyone else who would surely demand a story or ask invasive questions.

It was from this that John had realised that he had always, in fact, been very alone.

If John hadn't been alone before, then he could have found someone. But he could count all the people that he was really friends with on his fingers, and one of those was his own sister. Another was dead. One was his landlady, and he also had his therapist (who he didn't really like). There was a disgraced DI in there. Yes, there was Stamford, a couple of the boys from the army, but he didn't want to meet up in a pub or throw darts.

John Watson wanted to sleep.

Sadly, that wasn't proving to be an escape either.

When John fell asleep, he didn't expect (however frequent it might have been) to wake up to the sound of gunshots, to see a river of blood running down the pavement, or to be close to screaming. If one looked at John Watson, one would not expect him to be capable of screaming.

Well, it was more of a shout, but the point still stood.

It was midday, but John was already tired. He was tired of watching television that made no sense, from chat shows to soaps. He was tired of waking up in the idle of the night, terrified and sweating. He was tired of expecting Sherlock to walk through the door at any second and drag him off to a crime scene. John Watson was tired of a great many things, and those could not all be listed on his fingers.

His tea had gone cold.

* * *

_Watson!_

_John!_

_Help me!_

_Please, God, let me live._

_Trapped_

_Falling through the sand and dirt and dust_

_The battle field dissolving around him_

_Numb. Burning. Pain. Echoes. Sound is loud but so very irrelevant. _

_Falling_

_Jumping_

_Swimming through the air and landing on the pavement._

_And a river of blood running down the pavement._

_John_

_Running_

_Sherlock!_

"_Let me through, he's my friend!"_

_I don't have friends._

_I've just got one._

_John Watson had friends. But none of those friends were Sherlock Holmes. None of those friends would run around London in the small hours of morning to peruse a killer, none of those friends would venture around old power stations with him in search of the Dominatrix. None of those friends would leave their comfort zone for him, none of those friends would be real and honest and help him to grow as a person._

_None of those friends were Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and the best man he had ever known._

_Who was falling?_

_Sherlock?_

_John?_

_Both?_

_From the rooftop of a hospital that they both so well knew._

_Down, down, down._

_Splat._

_A broken body upon the floor._

_Geniuses didn't need help_

_Doctors even less so._

_Afraid._

_John Watson was very, very afraid._

* * *

"Sherlock!"

This wasn't the first and nor would it be the last night that John woke up sweating and scared, reaching for his gun and ready to shoot.

"Stop this. Please."

* * *

So, I'm back from London! I've had a great two weeks and from that I present you... this. Not very good but I hope you liked seeing into John's mind for a change. I'll have something actually good next week, but for now, here you go! Hope you like it and thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favourited and followed!


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock Holmes was bored.

Sadly, in a castle that was made of stone, it was impossible that he would be able to shoot any of the walls- unless, that was, he _wanted_ the bullet to come bouncing back at him. Nicotine patches were reserved for thinking time _only,_ and he wasn't keen t have yet another conversation with Snape. Or anyone, for that matter. Maybe he was willing it upon himself, but Sherlock Holmes was a very bored man, and the only thing that would fix that was a good case.

But you had to be an auror for that, and Sherlock Holmes had refused to do that years ago. Aurors either did too little or too much, and while he was no stranger to running around London in the middle of the night, Holmes was rather less keen to be paid for it, or to be s bloody conspicuous. Shooting coloured jets from a stick was hardly going to let him evade the spotlight, and at least a gunshot could be covered up by fireworks. Aurors also had the misfortune of not being too bright, and while there were a few who had evaded that, the majority of the department were very, very thick.

In a way, he almost wanted Moriarty back.

At least then he had something to do, someone to protect. And if Moriarty was back, then time could be reversed, things could have gone differently- but that wasn't going to happen. Even stealing a Time Turner would do nothing to help, because all Holmes would be able to do was watch from the side-lines- and hearing John's voice the first time had been painful enough.

The whole thing had been painful. Maybe too painful.

No, Sherlock Holmes did not succumb to pain. Even when he had been thrown to the ground, even when that book had fallen on his head- courtesy of a supposed rogue spell- in the third year, and even when he had managed to drop his trunk on his foot. Sherlock Holmes stood up and carried on, because he was emotionless git who didn't need anyone or anything.

It was a difficult legacy to live up to.

It was the sound of owl on window that jolted him from his thoughts, and at the prospect of a reply, he leapt from the sofa and to the window. But the owl wasn't his and the writing not John's, and so Sherlock Holmes sank once into a strange feeling of defeat that he hadn't felt in so long.

_Could I be so rude as to interrupt your evening and request your presence in my office? I have cauldron cakes._

_A.D_

Dumbledore. Great.

Holmes had been avoiding the headmaster for six days, and he had intended to keep it that way- but of course, the greatest wizard on the planet- and possibly even in the solar system that he knew so little about- would have noticed and forced a meeting.

He never had been good at Astronomy.

Sighing to himself, Holmes pulled on his robes over the shirt and smarter trousers that he was wearing. Boring, Muggle attire, and even though the robes were uncomfortable and too showy, Holmes wasn't stupid enough to walk around in a dinner jacket or blazer.

The halls were cold and quiet, touches flickering in their brackets. The only sounds were the crackles of the flames and his shoes on the hard floor, echoing and bouncing off the walls. How the torches stayed alight with the breeze drifting in through the old castle was always a mystery to him- but of course, it had to be magic. Magic, the greatest force of them all, and the precious few who had been blessed with it.

To Holmes, it felt like a curse.

Maybe it was the secrecy or the fear of not being fully in control, but Holmes was less than pleased with his magical ability. There was a very good reason for his self-exile into the Muggle world, and that reason was that at least out there, he was believed, and at least out there he could feel just a tiny bit more free.

Because who needed science and maths and literature when you could throw a curse? Defence, surely, was all about knowing your opponent, and what better way to do that than to recite some cryptic poetry?

Once the staircase had taken him to every floor that the castle had to offer, Holmes stepped up to the gargoyle that guarded the office.

"Cauldron cakes?" He felt silly just saying it, and even then had to phrase the password as a question. The gargoyle moved aside to reveal a staircase, and as soon as Holmes had laid his feet upon it, he found himself spinning up to the office.

He knocked.

"Come in."

Holmes stepped through the door and into the study. It was filled with books, old and new, and strange instruments that even he didn't know much about. Fawkes sat upon his perch next to Dumbledore's desk, where the older man sat, writing on a piece of parchment.

There were some days in which Holmes really did wish that the wizarding world would update itself in terms of technology.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Ah yes, Professor Holmes! How long has it been?"

"A matter of years. I would have called in sooner, but the Muggles don't sort themselves out too well these days."

Dumbledore chuckled. "It's as you remember?"

"Oh, I couldn't lose myself here- too small. Besides, nothing ever seems to change, aside from the teaching list."

"We have had a little trouble with that- but that isn't why I asked you here. No, I was wondering, Professor Holmes, whether you would be so kind as to answer a few questions for me?"

"Just not Astronomy, please. I'm still a little rusty with the planetary systems."

"And yet you managed to achieve an O! You're too modest. No, I was going to inquire as to the matter of the Order, and pitch you another offer of joining."

As he had expected. Holmes had known, even though it had been a subconscious piece of knowledge, that Dumbledore would ask about the organisation. "My answer remains as always. When I left, I left for good. I have no interest in fighting dark lords, Dumbledore, only in preparing the future of our world to face them. It would be unwise of me to accept your offer."

"Why might that be?"

"Fighting isn't a sport that has ever interested me. I am capable but reluctant. I've seen what war can do to a person, and my previous experiences with the Order have been less than joyful."

"Remus will be disappointed."

"He took the job two years ago, am I correct?"

"Yes, and now he stays at headquarters. I happened to mention your acceptance of this job placement, and he was… hopeful that you might change your mind."

"We were hardly close."

"But for you, it was friendship. Sirius- you know of his escape?"

"He's innocent."

"And in hiding. He was hoping to see you again."

"Black and I were hardly- my answer stays as ever. Joining the Order is a commitment that I simply am not willing to make."

"And yet, extending a hand to Harry Potter is?"

Holmes let his eyes flicker to the window, wishing for some kind of distraction to come hurtling through it. "Mr Potter is a troubled boy who has witnessed things far beyond the nightmares of any boy his age. I hardly doubt that some guidance would be any harm to the boy."

"Or do you see a part of yourself in him? I certainly can."

Holmes sighed, reverting his eyes back to the headmaster. They had never seen eye-to-eye, but there had never been a conflict between them. "Tell Remus that I will drop by this Saturday afternoon."

He could have sworn that the old man smiled.

* * *

_Am I getting lazy? Yeah, I suppose I am. I will confess to completely forgetting about this until tonight, and so this chapter is hastily typed and not too well written. Possibly also riddled with spelling and grammar issues. My apologies. I know I say this every time, but I do promise that the next one will be better._

_In other news, I just finished the first book in my trilogy and am speeding through a different story that I started writing a while ago. Yay ^.^_

_Until next week, happy reading! _


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock Holmes didn't want to be standing in front of a class full of teenagers.

He didn't want to be teaching them the basic principles of magical self-defence.

And he certainly didn't want to have to raise his voice in order to be heard.

Well, he wasn't having to shout, but Holmes was conscious of the lack of interest that the class was displaying. Aside from the usual few- Granger, Potter, and Longbottom being the obvious ones- the class was clearly bored, and they didn't seem to have a problem with telling their teacher that.

Holmes didn't care if they didn't listen, but appearing soft would only mean that he would be open to more jokes, and therefore looked down upon by every other inhabitant of the castle. But it was difficult to make a lesson interesting when a visit to Grimmauld Place was on the horizon.

Dumbledore had persuaded him. It was sad, really, that an old man could persuade him with only a few words and a half-smile, but Holmes had always felt bad about disappointing his teachers. And Dumbledore was still one of those, even if Holmes had long since left the castle. Working hard to impress was what he did, and so if Dumbledore saw Holmes in a better light due to this visit, then the visit had to be made.

Of course, he had strictly enforced the statement of not joining the Order. Holmes had not re-entered the magical world for a fight, although his timing could contradict that. Holmes had come back for protection and a distraction, and that meant no wars, no getting involved, and leaving as soon as he had to. No commitment, no helping others.

Harry Potter was an exception. Some people needed to be helped.

John, for instance, had needed to be helped. He had all but _asked_ for Holmes to take him into his world of crime and running, and Holmes had gladly done just that. John had needed fun and a friend, and while the fun that Holmes had provided was nowhere near the average idea of the word, John had liked it. Holmes had liked it.

But now, Sherlock Holmes didn't have any friends. He didn't have any enemies either, but friends had never been a strong point at school, and none of his classmates had shown any interest. There was Remus, but they were different people. Remus led his own troubled life and didn't get involved in the affairs of others. But Holmes couldn't _not._ Someone else's life was far more interesting than his own, and if that meant that he was set aside from everyone else and labelled as _weird_, then so be it.

"Potter, stay behind!" He managed to shout over the noise of the class. He let the rest of them filter out, most likely complaining about a lesson wasted, and then nodded to the boy. "I may have insulted you with today's lesson."

"No sir."

"I get the impression, Mr Potter, that you've learned to defend yourself from outside these castle walls. Or more, taken the advice on how to defend yourself."

"I read a lot, sir."

"Hardly believable. A word of advice, Mr Potter: do not lie to me. I can find out anything that I want by simply looking at you. What you ate for breakfast, how late you were up last night, how much last minute homework you plan on doing this lunch break and, unfortunately for you, I can find out who you were talking to I the Gryffindor common room after hours."

"You're a spy." The boy stated it, as though he was completely solid in his views.

"Anything but. I'm an observer. Mr Potter, what or who is Sirius Black to you?"

The boy flinched, frowning. "Why do you-"

"Just a question. I can't work out _everything_ so easily. That would give me an unfair advantage over everyone else."

"He's… a friend."

So the boy understood. Interesting. Holmes knew, of course, that Sirius Black was more than just a friend to Potter, but his answers were certainly interesting. "I ask you this, Mr Potter, because Sirius Black, as you already know, is a member of the Order of the Phoenix. I imagine that you're interested in joining? I'm not here to dissuade you, just to… ask."

"Um, yes, sir. But I'm not allowed."

He sounded bitter. Of course he was, being denied a role in something he had so large of a part in. Holmes was almost angry- without Potter, the Order would be long gone, and would never have been able to reorganise in light of the new threat. It was illogical to not include Potter in the Order, to leave him out there alone. An easy target, an easy pick. It was foolish really, for anyone to think that it was a good idea.

Of course it was Dumbledore. It had to be.

"I see that we're in very different positions here, Mr Potter. I am being begged to take up a place in the Order, a place that I have no interest in or desire to have. You, on the other hand, are being refused a place that you didn't even need to earn, one that should be handed to you in any case. I'm not speaking ill of authority, but I think it's rather an odd decision."

"They don't want me-"

"Hurt? But that's inevitable. Mr Potter, you of all people know this best; we are on the fringes of a war. Our world, and the world that we disguise ourselves in, is under threat. You are at the very centre of this threat, and the very idea of keeping you out of harm's way will do more bad than good."

"Then why are you reading from the textbook instead of teaching us how to fight?"

"Our friends at the Ministry wouldn't approve. But, Mr Potter, you can teach yourself. You have Mr Black, and criminals are always the best teachers."

"He's not a-"

"Of course he isn't. But in this day and age, we could always use some more disguises."

Sherlock Holmes had never quite gotten used to the sensation that accompanied apparition. He had wanted to avoid the practice altogether, but being in London at this time was dangerous enough- being on public transport in London even more so. And so he had reluctantly allowed himself to briefly suffocate, in order to arrive at Grimmauld Place and argue with its occupants.

He spotted the old house immediately, and, after looking around twice for Muggles, made his way to the front door. Nothing had changed- not that he had expected it to- and when Holmes disappeared inside, he wasn't even surprised. The house was as quiet as ever, minus an odd clicking noise coming from upstairs and the mutterings of the house elf, Kreacher. Holmes was honestly shocked that the elf was still alive and able to serve the Black family- or what was left of it. He wondered, for a brief moment, what Kreacher had done to occupy himself during Sirius Black's imprisonment; but he knew that the elf had probably just spent thirteen long years in a cupboard somewhere.

Others would be here, aside from Sirius and Remus. Not many of the old crowd- those who he had met had either gone off and had children, deciding that the Order wasn't safe for a family, or been killed during the height of Voldemort's reign. He had a feeling that the Weasley's, or at least some of them, would be involved. Quite a few Hogwarts professors, and then pretty much any well-known name from the wizarding world. And then there was Holmes, with his Muggle learning's and strange older brother.

Oh, Mycroft. Holmes hadn't even written to him.

From the kitchen came the sound of chatter, as though a meeting had just ended. Holmes set his hand on the door handle, slightly nervous of what was to come. Not a warm welcome- he had always kept to himself around here. Maybe a few jokes that he wouldn't appreciate. And then a lot of questions. But Holmes had always been a good liar- detectives had to be- and the web that he had created for himself could do with a few more strands.

You could face killers and guns and throw yourself from a rooftop, but not much could top the terror of facing old friends.

And so he opened the door.

* * *

_I feel so bad because this is short and pretty... meh. I should explain myself:_

_School has started. My teachers gave me homework on the first day. I'm taking a higher level writing course and two sciences. I also now have a volunteer job. I'm writing the second book in my trilogy, preparing for NaNoWriMo, and working on poetry._

_These are no excuses for the long wait AND bad chapter, but rest assured that I have a surprise up my sleeve for Sherlock S3. It concerns the New Beginnings trilogy and possibly also this story. I don't know yet, it's early days. _

_I'LL ACTUALLY UPDATE PROPERLY NEXT TIME I PROMISE._

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and favourited. It really means a lot. _


	8. Chapter 8

The room was still buzzing, each of its occupants busy chatting away. Holmes slipped inside, pushing the door so that it was almost closed, and took a space by one of the cabinets, leaning on it in with a slightly arrogant stance. He should have known, really, that this wasn't the attitude to take this time around- but it was a mask, a façade. Sherlock Holmes was not where he was in order to be arrogant. He was where he was for protection, information, and to keep his space in the game.

Because the wizarding world had entered a dangerous game. And at the head of it sat the Order of the Phoenix, and organisation that had lost too much to remain functioning.

But somehow, the Order had pulled through. Sitting at the wooden table, feet up and chair tilted on its back legs sat Sirius Black, the joker of the pack of cards. Next to him, slightly more formal and in an altogether safer position, was Remus Lupin- grinning for once, glancing over to Sirius every few seconds. Molly and Arthur Weasley sat side by side, leaning over the wooden surface and conversing with their son, Bill, who Holmes wasn't acquainted with as of yet. Mundungus Fletcher was snoozing on the other side of Sirius, emitting a smoky smell, his jacket packed tight with what was clearly stolen goods. Mad-Eye Moody was also present, his strapped on eye swilling across the room. He gave Holmes a nod, but didn't call him out- Sherlock Holmes preferred the shadows, and that was something that Mad-Eye at least understood. A woman with bright purple hair sat with her head on her arms, occasionally pointing her wand at pieces of cutlery and watching the shoot across the table.

Other members were filtering out, their sounds being replaced by the wireless set. The thing was giving of its usual squeaky report, but not many were paying attention. Kingsley Shacklebolt strolled around on the other side of the room, rolling up scrolls of paper. Holmes was reluctant to show himself- he may have been familiar with a large number of the occupants of the dining room, but they still felt like strangers to him. They were happier than before, but also had a sense of urgency about them; as if they were happy only because soon, there would be nothing to be happy about, and they were determined to stay joyful for as long as possible. Or maybe they had yet to fully process the idea of a war, and were simply choosing to stay that way.

No. These people were soldiers. They had chosen where to stand, and by doing that had become fighters against something that had yet to come close to defeat.

Disarmament, yes. But Lord Voldemort had to have used his time wisely.

"Sherlock 'Olmes!"

And so it began. Trust Fletcher to make a scene.

The room fell quiet as Moody wacked Fletcher with his stick. "Never knows when to shut up. Holmes." The auror nodded, as did the former detective.

"Sherlock!" Molly Weasley. It was _always_ Molly Weasley. Holmes could see her and Mrs Hudson getting along only too well, and for a moment he had to stop to remember his beloved landlady. "You'd think they don't feed you well enough up at that castle." She grumbled, surveying him almost too fondly.

"Too well, Molly." Holmes allowed himself a smile. "Arthur." He nodded.

"I wanted to ask you, actually, a few Muggles matters-"

"Not now, Arthur!"

"Yes, dear."

Molly turned to discipline her husband, leaving Holmes with some more space. "Remus," he nodded. "Black."

"Call me Sirius. No one uses the family name unless it's to shout at me. Oh, and Snape. Never forget old Snivellus, the slimy git. You've got to give me the gossip, Harry's got nothing that I didn't already expect- I mean, now we have someone who _works_ with him, we can finally find out what he's-"

"Sirius-" Remus warned.

"-up to, and then I can get back at him for being such a-"

"Sirius!" Remus, for the first time in what seemed like forever, had raised his voice. "How's, um Hogwarts?" It appeared that he was trying to stifle a giggle.

"Oh, treating me well enough. The robes are a bit much to handle, though. Muggle attire has the upper hand here, I'm afraid."

"And Dumbledore-"

"Keeping the students out of trouble, as always."

"Minus the twins." Muttered Molly from across the room. "Goodness knows how I haven't gotten a letter about them yet."

"On the country, Molly, they're exceptionally well behaved in my classes. Excellent students, although I might ask you to mention to them that pretending to be each other will not in any way help them to defend themselves outside of the castle walls."

"I should hope they haven't been-! Anything else? We might as well know. Ron? Ginny?"

Holmes nodded, touched by the concern held by Molly for her children. One of her many redeeming qualities, and Mrs Weasley and her family were the possibly the only people that Holmes had yet to find a negative trait in. Perhaps they held too much sentiment- or perhaps they simply value their family in a way that Holmes no longer could. "Doing just fine."

"So, Holmes," Sirius began, drawing up a chair. "What's brought you back?"

"If you paid close enough attention to the Muggle papers, you might be more informed. I've had to dive out for a while, so to speak."

"Yeah, Molly was fretting. But we didn't expect you to come _here._ Dumbledore mentioned that you were up at the school, but it seemed pretty solid when you left before."

Holmes shrugged, in a way that he hadn't done for years. "I need protection, you need more people. It's a complimentary placement, and I couldn't say no to Dumbledore's offer."

"'Course you couldn't, none of us can. Good to have you back though. Let's see, you've missed… the rebirth of a Dark Lord, Fudge losing it, Harry showing off in front of Muggles, Fudge losing it _again_, Snivellus acting like I'm a child for finding it all funny, Remus learning how to feed a Hippogriff, and Hagrid almost flooding the dining room with his tears. We'll catch you up, and Dumbledore should have something planned for you. Of course, you'll be having more fun than me-"

"Sirius is confined to Grimmauld Place until we can prove his innocence," Remus cut in. "And he's being bitter about it."

"You try hiding out here for what could be years and see how you enjoy it. You might be jobless, Moony, but at least _you_ can go outside."

"Not if I'm getting so much backlash from it." Remus muttered. Holmes had almost missed their jibes, the way that Sirius and Remus could be almost like brothers. He and Mycroft had never achieved that kind of relationship, and John- well, John thought that Sherlock was dead. And if Sherlock couldn't trust him enough to tell the truth, to have them disappear together, then did he really have the kind of friendship that he thought he did?

Yes. This was for John's protection, for the sake of everyone.

Especially John.

"And Peter?" Holmes asked, in an attempt to quell what was becoming jealousy.

"Who knows. Probably sucking up to old Voldy and trying not to get himself killed, the little rat. I'd have him brought here and tortured if I could, but Remus and Dumbledore and every other Order member thinks it's unpractical."

"Not your greatest idea, I'll give you that."

"So can we use the so called _fake genius_ to our advantage? You always seemed pretty real to me."

How he hated the name. The papers were wrong, every single one of them. Hell, they had never even been close to right, not ever in their entire existence. The papers never got it right because they were too busy looking at the general picture. Never the details, never the real story. And that was where the wizarding world would always triumph over that of the Muggles, because before now, before the worst of the worst had come to light, there had always been at least an element of truth in there. At least one sentence that told the full story. And now, Holmes was trapped, all because of an Irishman and some publicity.

"Once you end up in the papers, you have to have a name. Mine happens to be less than flattering. I'm not more of a fake than magic itself, Sirius. The Muggles are as wrong as they've ever been. Amazing in so many ways, and incredibly ignorant in every other. I'm more than happy to re-join the Order."

"Yeah, you don't look it. Then again, sometimes you look more miserable than Snivellus. Brighten up and join the party, Holmes. It's going to be a long one."

Holmes couldn't not smile.

* * *

_Yo~_

_Guess who procrastinated?! That's right, it's me! I try, I really do. Anyway, here is chapter eight, and thank you so very much to everyone who has reviewed, followed, favourited, and read. There will be more... at some point._

_BUT 100 FOLLOWERS LIKE WOW HI GUYS WHERE'D YOU ALL COME FROM I SWEAR I JUST TURNED MY BACK AND THEN SUDDENLY BAM! YOU'RE HERE? HI WELCOME THANKS YOU LOT ARE SO KIND._

_Sorry and thank you and yay ^.^_


	9. Chapter 9

So Sherlock Holmes had re-joined the Order.

That hadn't been the intended outcome of his trip: rather, he had wanted to outline his stance and tell everyone that he wasn't back as a permanent member, and that he was only there on Dumbledore's orders and as a favour. But nothing ever worked out as he planned these days, and maybe being a part of the Order would offer some protection.

Even though Holmes worked alone. Even though Holmes needed no one anymore, because the only people that he had ever _wanted_ to need had to stay away from the truth.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't happy.

But in a way, a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Members of the Order, members who didn't hide behind greasy curtains of hair, knew more about Harry Potter than the boy himself. While sitting at the table in Grimmauld place, Sherlock Holmes had managed to unearth some facts about the boy, which at least made the next step of his plan easier to execute.

The boy was lonely, however many friends and admirers he had. He also partly _wanted _this loneliness, for others to stay away from him and out of danger. Because the boy was dangerous, there was no doubt about that. A time bomb, planted by Voldemort but without the knowledge of anyone else because ever young wizard had to go to school, and even though the Dark Lord couldn't take his enemies directly, he could at least use the one he _really _wanted gone. Oh, it was clever, and Holmes couldn't help but admire that tactic and subtlety that had gone into that.

It was clever. Almost Moriarty clever.

The boy was needed, but also _needy._ He needed comfort and support and while there was no doubt that his friends gave him just that, there was something about the surrounding adults that didn't quite cut it, that made the situation only worse. And Holmes could relate well to that, to the sense of needing more than what he had.

Mr Potter was a complex individual. He was traumatised, Molly said. He was confused, Remus had muttered. He was _fine_, Sirius had insisted, although no one really listened. Mr Potter needed Dumbledore, and all Dumbledore could do was ignore the cries for help.

So Holmes would have to step up.

His plan was unclear to even himself. Was he to simply help the boy and do nothing else? Was he to recruit young members for the Order? Or was he to prepare the students, Mr Potter in particular, for the years of war and turmoil that were surely approaching?

A mix of all, perhaps. It was a tricky matter, and how Holmes went about it was the most important choice to make.

He sighed, looking around the room. Books were stacked and scattered wherever they could find a place, parchment piled upon the desk. Quills and ink dotted on every elevated surface and a wand, discarded on the other side of the sofa.

Holmes took the wand, hating every inch of the wooden stick. How he loathed the power it gave him, the advantage he had over those who he called friends. He hated how even without the thing, he could easily reveal himself, accidently let sparks fly in only the most literal of ways.

He could control it around John. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly too. Even Anderson and Donovan. But Moriarty had known, because Moriarty was one too. And Holmes had never had the advantage, and that was what he loved the most.

An equal.

They had never duelled- it wasn't the style of either of the men. But it was apparent to both that the other could very easily dispose of him in a second, suddenly and quietly and in a way that couldn't possibly be traced back to him. Moriarty had held the threat and so had Holmes, because neither would use it, and the other always knew.

Moriarty was afraid. Holmes was too, but for opposite reasons.

The power that he had held was too great for a skinny, lone wanderer, and he could never have used such power to _kill._ Killing was for guns and knives, not magic. It was too quick, too easy- too powerful. Something weak was often the best for the one with no physical pros.

Moriarty on the other hand, was simply weary. He knew the consequences, and even he couldn't break out of Azkaban. So Moriarty had kept to the basics, breaking in and breaking out without anyone noticing, and getting a kick out of taunting Sherlock Holmes.

Well, Moriarty was gone now. But his laugh lingered.

Before he knew it, Holmes had taken up the quill, each dot of the _I_ piercing a hole in the parchment.

_John,_

_Ignore this. Don't reply. Don't tell anyone that you got it, because goodness knows who might still be watching. But I'm here, I'm alive. I can't tell you how or why but please, you have to listen to me. Moriarty is gone, but so am I. I can't come back and find you. But his men can, and you have to look out for them. I can't lose you, John, even though I already have. Watch out. Stay vigilant._

_Sherlock._

It sounded wrong. But Holmes wanted to send it off, to tie the parchment to the leg of the owl and watch the thing fly along its way.

Even if that would have John a heart attack.

"And if you'll direct your attention to the board, your homework-"

The class gave a unified groan, as though they had honestly thought the lesson might end without extra work. Holmes was almost ashamed- surely he had taught his class better?

"Will be due next lesson! If it's not completed, you can expect lines and a very angry owl to your parents! Even you, Malfoy!" Holmes called after the blonde, who was hurrying away as fast as he could. "Mr Potter, a word?"

Potter's every move indicated reluctance, and it was with some hesitation that his friends left him behind. But he knew, really, what Holmes wanted, even if Holmes didn't know it himself.

"Yes, sir?" The boy was looking him the eye, the very way that Moriarty had when trying to unnerve him. It was all Holmes could do not to look away.

"You seem to be finding my classes rather easy, Mr Potter. You have a good track record in this subject, as I'm sure you know, but I am nonetheless… surprised."

"How, sir?"

"It's an unexplainable surprise. As you may recall, I asked you about Mr Black last week. I had the joy of meeting with him over the weekend, as a matter of fact."

"Did he insult Snape- _professor _Snape, sir?" Oh, he took joy in it. He knew what his godfather thought of the potions master and he loved having someone else who felt the same, someone who had authority and supposed morals, and yet someone who still laughed at the greasy haired slime ball.

"Numerous times. However, my impressions of you, Mr Potter are still limited. You're interested in joining the Order?" The boy nodded. "I would happily allow you in, even though that's not my choice to make. Now, I wanted to ask what you know of the Order- specifically, where they stand in terms of Muggle relations."

"I-" He wasn't sure. Holmes knew, but what he didn't know was what the boy would say. Would he deny that he was unsure, and make something up? Or would he say what little he knew and leave it at that? "I'm not entirely sure, sir. They broke into my aunt and uncles house, but-"

"Well, certain houses deserve breaking into, Mr Potter. Now, I'm prepared to help you. You want to join the Order, I want to stay out of it. But we're both in the very place we don't want to be, and with the help of each other, we could very easily change that around. But you have to be honest, you have to volunteer answers in my lessons, and you have to convince Miss Granger that I am _not_, in _any_ way against the use of practical magic like she thinks I am."

"Hermione-"

"Has been asking me about it every day since school started. Tell her we'll begin practicing next week."

The boy was startled. So was Holmes. He had never been this forward, not without protection. He was sat here, in a suit and nothing else. His wand to the side, no gun or other weapon, not even robes to shield him. If anything, Potter was intimidating.

"I- Of course, I'll- If I could just ask you a question, sir?" Holmes nodded, although he was suspicious. "Why _did_ you decide to come back? Only Sirius said…"

"The Muggle world, as I'm sure you know, holds just as many dangers as this one. It was in my best interests to lie low for a while. A few skirmishes, an Irish fiend and some murders don't help one's public image, as you may have guessed."

The boy frowned, but Holmes couldn't bring himself to elaborate. There were sentimental reasons too, ones that he couldn't admit to even himself. And as Potter closed the classroom door behind him, Holmes began to wonder what _really_ made him go back to the world he was supposed to hate.

* * *

_I know, I said I'd update properly this time. I lied._

_I mean, you'd think I would have learned to stop saying these things. _

_BUT THANK YOU FOR THE REVIEWS AND FAVOURITES AND FOLLOWS AND READS IT MEANS SO MUCH TO ME YOU HAVE NO IDEA. Well, you probably do._

_Look, I won't pretend that there's something great after all these italics. Just me with my excuses. Thank you and goodnight!_


	10. Chapter 10

John Watson had never felt so empty.

The tea had gone cold and the only source of warmth in the flat was the central heating, kept on by Mrs Hudson. How she had known that John would forget was beyond the lonely man's thoughts, but he was grateful. Of course he was grateful. There was no way he couldn't be, no way that he could forget about the sweet old woman who made him tea and cleaned the flat and made sure he got up every single morning.

The sweet old woman who watched his slow descent into madness. An empty, lonesome madness, filled with demons and devils, chuckling with a hint of Irish joy. Jumping from across the room when he least expected it, shadows looming across the walls and running, constantly running from things that weren't even there. An empty shell flying across the battlefield that was London, John Watson was empty and broken and everything in between.

Nothing had happened since _it_, nothing had changed. Lestrade had dropped by, announced that he had lost his job, and had tea. Then he had left, occasionally texting but no more than that. Mycroft hadn't bothered and John was glad for it and all Molly had done was cry and leave. It was ridiculous that a man with so little emotions could leave so many in his wake, tears and trials and all sorts of things that John couldn't put into words, for fear that the lump in his throat would rise and overpower him. It was unbelievable that someone who had been alone for so long couldn't stand being left again. He had expected it, never imagined that he would have the company he had kept for so long, and yet now, now it was gone.

All those things John Watson had finally found, only to be snatched away from the roof of a hospital building.

Strange things had happened. Owls flew overhead, never landing unless it was to sit on the windowsill and tap the glass. John couldn't feed them, he didn't know what owls ate and didn't want to look it up, but they were always _there._ When they left, they flew north. In fact, John had never seen an owl fly south.

Only _he_ would notice these things. And it was sad that John had only picked it up after he had gone.

Sometimes he thought he saw him. Once in north London, where he had gone on a whim, he had thought he saw him in a cloak. It wasn't him, it never was, but John had run until his limp got the better of him.

They always disappeared. John would blink and they were gone, nowhere in the crowd of even in a desolate square.

_Illusions._

As though these imposters were painted onto the air and then torn down by invisible bandits.

John pitied himself but there was nothing he could do to change that and no one who was willing to try. Ella was useless, insisting he keep the blog and write on it and do this and do that and things that John didn't want to do because they didn't involve him. They involved his shell and nothing more, no real John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.

He needed the battlefield, a battlefield that had never contained Sherlock Holmes.

What had Mycroft said, that first time the governmental git had gotten hold of him? _When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield._ And hadn't that been exactly what John had needed? Not anymore, not the battlefield of emotions and pain and hate that he was walking through now. John Watson needed the thrill and the heat and the dust as he ran from what was probably a roadside bomb. John Watson needed a life that didn't allow time for thinking, a life of coordinates and explosions and red crosses on white bags.

_Pathetic._

They wouldn't let him back in on any grounds. John Watson was a veteran too early on, and he would only be laughed at and sent on his way. Stamford wouldn't allow it, and John knew that Stamford would find out because Stamford was the only guy prepared to sit in a pub with him for hours, stuck in silence but at the same time saying everything that needed to be said.

But at the same time, Stamford wasn't the person John Watson needed right now.

He also didn't need those prats in robes idling outside the flat. It wasn't Halloween, not even close, and either way John could fathom wearing _robes_ in public. Sure, bed sheet ghosts were acceptable, but robes? Some things were supposed to stay in the wardrobe.

* * *

_John?_

_Keep an eye on John._

_Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid._

_Just make sure-_

_Make sure he stays out of trouble and doesn't-_

_And doesn't for the love of all things holy-_

_Make sure he doesn't get on that bloody roof-_

_Can you do that?_

_Don't talk to him-_

_Don't meet his eyes unless you _have_ too, just-_

_You have to make sure he's okay._

_I can't do it myself, he'd know, he'd know within a second that it's me because-_

_Look, just as a favour._

_I'll join the Order and I'll watch Potter and I'll do whatever you want-_

_But you have to keep John safe for me-_

_All he's got is himself and I can't let that go-_

_The others aren't anything to him anymore, just pieces in his- in _Moriarty's _little game-_

_Watch him._

* * *

John Watson was empty.

An artillery shell flying across a battlefield of a city.

Dodging everything because he couldn't bring himself to hit anyone else because who deserved to feel that kind of pain, who _really_ deserved to feel things that no human being should ever have to feel?

One false move and bam! He was on that roof again, looking down at a city he didn't understand and couldn't even find his way around because the one who had guided him around it was gone, gone from this very roof and never coming back because what was a life in a silly little game?

Nothing.

Life wa g.

Disposable.

Mendable.

Put a plaster on and send the poor soul back into a world they didn't quite understand.

Watch the havoc as the world becomes a portal to that same _bloody_ roof top, that same stupid place that John Watson could never leave because for some reason it was _that_ significant, _that_ important that he at least find out what had happened to his best friend.

"Sherlock… please."

* * *

Official bad person Sasha here. Hi. Sorry. Bad Sasha. I won't play with John's emotions any more than I have to. Which is quite a lot. Sorry. Am I speaking in fragments?

Oops.

Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading :)


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